Walk No More In Shadow
by Alexa Johnson
Summary: Faramir, Éowyn and learning to live again in the Houses of Healing and beyond, to the plighting of their troth. A blend of book and movie canon. NO slash, sex, profanity. Chapter 2 now up!
1. Chapter 1

_Yes, I know what you're all thinking—ANOTHER Faramir/Éowyn in the Houses of Healing story? Well, a few years ago, I wrote for this fandom in another name, but my writing has changed so much that I no longer wanted to be associated with my old work. One of these stories I'd begun was a Faramir/Éowyn romance, but it was never finished, mainly due to RL things. But I've always wanted to write my own interpretation of their story—there is a reason why there are so many of them, I suppose lol—and I've had yet to come across one quite like the story I am about to tell. This will be a blend of book and movie canon: for example, to simplify things a bit, there will be no Beregond in this story, much as I love him. Faramir, however, was never tempted with the ring and he did not loose all his men because I love some of his rangers too much, Merry does remain behind in the Houses and book characters like Imrahil are present. As things appear, I'll do my best to clarify them!_

_I hope you all will enjoy, and reviews are much appreciated!_

_Many, many thanks to my lovely beta Arahiril—your help means the world to me!_

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, and am merely playing in The Great Professor's Sandbox! If he were alive he'd probably have a thing or two to say to me, but ignorance is bliss?

* * *

**Walk No More In Shadow**

_by alexa johnson_

**I**

* * *

_March 19__th__, 3019_

He dreams of fire and does not know why.

Faramir knows he needs rest but each night the nightmares accost him and he fears their coming, although he is no closer to deciphering their meaning than he was than when they first began. He has asked everyone he knows for answers—the Warden, Ioreth, other servants, even—but they tell him they are as clueless as he. Yet he can discern from their downcast expressions that they are keeping something from him, but this reticence alarms more than angers him.

On the eve before the Host's departure for the Black Gates, his uncle Imrahil told him of his father's death, but had been careful not to disclose the manner of his passing.

"_He fell._" The words were simple, sorrowful. _"I am sorry, nephew, and wish I could say more to ease your suffering. Yet all I have are these words, and even they feel empty in the wake of this tragedy."_

Faramir's heart had twisted, but with what, he was not sure. _"How? When? Why would no one tell me?"_

"_You were very ill, and we did not wish to burden you with yet more grief. You are still recovering, but I felt that to go any longer without giving you this news would be more of a cruelty than a kindness." _Imrahil had looked repentant, but Faramir still had the feeling that his uncle was hiding something from him, and had not failed to notice that the older man had neglected to answer his first two questions.

The thought that had occurred to him then remains with him still: _if the whole truth was too terrible for anyone to reveal, did he even _want _to know?_

So he had let it lie, but now he thinks that this not knowing will drive him mad.

It is quickly becoming an obsession, but dwelling on the reasons for the fire is a far better alternative than thinking about Boromir.

_Oh, Boromir…_

His shoulders shake threateningly, and he fiercely suppresses the tears that have been struggling to break through his barriers ever since he saw the vision of the boat. As Captain, he cannot afford to lose himself in grief, and even though he cannot hide behind his rank now, he forces the memories away because he is afraid that once he starts crying he will not be able to stop.

Crying means acceptance, and he does not know if he will ever be able to face this pain.

The words he'd asked his lord and father come back to him now, words he still wonders how he'd found the strength to voice: "_You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died, and Boromir had lived."_

Perhaps it is a selfish thought, but now he is close to agreeing with his father if only to spare him from this torment.

* * *

Éowyn awakes to the soft murmuring of voices outside her door.

She does not know what time it is, for she has been dozing on and off for the majority of the day, and feigning sleep when servants enter her room. Even _thinking _of opening her mouth to form words seems like too much of an effort, so she just lies in bed, praying she will be let alone. Soon the idea of spending so many hours in sloth will vex her, but right now she cannot summon up the energy to care.

"…does not eat unless I practically force food down his throat myself, and I know he is not sleeping even though he tells me he is—the darkness around his eyes is more honest than he! I fear he is sinking into a depression that none of us here will be able to banish!"

"Maybe…" A pause. "Maybe we should tell him."

She does not like to eavesdrop, but their words have been drifting into her awareness in spite of her efforts to ignore them, and quite against her will, she finds that her curiosity is growing.

"Have you taken complete leave of your senses" _Ah, _thinks Éowyn, having finally put a face with the first speaker. _Ioreth. _"It is enough he knows the man is dead! To tell him more would crush him even further! I know he has been asking, but we mustn't, we have been strictly forbidden—"

"Peace, Dame Ioreth. I do not question their reasoning, only I would rather he find out from us instead of hear rumors that I am sure are already spreading."

"I know this." There is a sigh, broken with despair. "Yet I would rather wait until his uncle the Prince Imrahil has returned, who may be better able to pull him out of his grief than you or me."

"We may not have that luxury. You know as well as I how hard it is to keep secrets from him. All I want to tell you is to prepare yourself in case we are left with no other choice."

There is another silence, this one longer than the first, and Éowyn finds herself wishing that she knew of whom they are conversing, if only to put a name to this stranger.

"I understand, but let us try to delay the telling as long as possible. Now if you will kindly excuse me, good Warden, I have patients to whom I must attend."

Éowyn resists the urge to groan, for she desires neither company nor victuals, and whatever reply the Warden gives is lost to her as she hears her door open and shut.

As Ioreth's steps increase in volume, Éowyn finds her earlier interest disintegrate into apathy now that the discussion of the mystery man has ceased, and she evens out her breathing in an effort to simulate sleep so she will not have to face the pity and concern which will no doubt be laced into her expression. Ioreth is a good and kind woman, Éowyn knows this, but she has a propensity for verbiage and sentences that never end, and suddenly the thought of facing both those traits is almost unbearable.

She wants her brother Éomer, but he is not here, and it is probable that she will never see him again. And they had not even parted on the best of terms…

"_I have never been as scared as I was when I found you on the Pelennor. I thought—I thought I had lost you…" _It was the day after Lord Aragorn had healed her, and she and Éomer had managed to find a moment of intimacy. He was holding her close, and she was too relieved to see him to resist, even if the thought of still being alive did not fill her with much joy. _"I mean—what in the name of the Valar were you _thinking _Éowyn?"_

Her body stiffened and she pulled away, looking him in the face. "_The same as you, I imagine. I would have preferred to ride out to face the end than sit and wait for it to come to me."_

"_I told you that war is the province of men, Éowyn! Why did you not listen? Do you not know what your death would have done to me?" _Anger was coloring his voice now, as it often did when Éomer was upset.

"_And what if I had lost _you?" she demanded, her own frustration rising to match his. "_Did you think of what it would have been like for me, waiting at Edoras and not even knowing if you were alive? I assumed you were all riding to your doom, and I could not have borne that pain alone."_

Éomer lowered his head and let go of her. "_We may yet be, Éowyn."_

She stared at him, her breath bated. "_What do you mean?"_

"_We're marching to the Black Gate, to provide a diversion for Frodo and Sam so that they might have a chance to journey to Mt. Doom unnoticed by Sauron. We will be outnumbered—there is no doubt about that. I do not have the gift of foresight, but even if I did I am not sure I would want to see the end that we would come to." _His voice had dropped so low that Éowyn almost missed his words, but when he was finished she almost wished that she had.

Despair gripped her even more than it had before, and if she had not been beyond tears she might have cried. "_Then let me come to face it with you. Let me fight!"_

Éomer was already on his feet. "_No."_

If she could have risen, she would have done so, but instead she pursed her lips and clenched the fingers of her good hand into a fist. "_Éomer—"_

But he cut her off before she could get any further. "_No! You are wounded, and should not even be here in the first place! No, Éowyn, you are not to come. If by chance I do return, I want to see you well again, not lost beyond all healing. You will stay here."_

At this point, she did not know which was greater: her anger or her hopelessness. "_You cannot order me about as though I were some errant child—"_

"_Oh, but I can: for after—" _Éomer paused to swallow deeply, but it did not take him long to recover, at least superficially. "_Now I am King in all but name. If you will not listen to your brother, you shall listen to him: as King of Rohan, I order you to stay here, in the Houses of Healing. If I find you have disobeyed me—I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive you."_

Her mouth was open, poised with an answer, but she was in too much shock to voice it.

Éomer closed his eyes, breathing now not quite so ragged. "_I—goodbye, Éowyn."_

He had gone before she had even registered his leaving.

_If only my body had not been spared. Yet it has, and now I am all alone, trapped in my greatest fear: I am locked in a cage…_

Feeling completely miserable now, she does her best to keep her body still and her breathing quiet so as not to alert Ioreth to the nature of her thoughts.

_Please, just let me be…_

"My Lady?"

Éowyn ignores her, hoping Ioreth will respect her silence, and when the healer sighs softly, Éowyn thinks she can hear understanding in her tone. "I am not fooled by your ruse my Lady, but I will honor your wishes. I have here some supper in case you desire to eat, and a sleeping draught to aid your rest. If you need anything at all, all you need do is send for me, and I will serve you. Take care, my Lady."

She waits until Ioreth's gentle footsteps have faded and until she hears the soft click of her door closing before releasing an almost strangled sigh and rolling over to look at the tray that Ioreth has placed upon the table by her bed. There is a bowl of steaming soup, a glass of water, and the promised sleeping draught.

She has no memory of the last time she has eaten, but the promise of an empty sleep is now more tempting and she downs the draught in one desperate swallow, almost hoping that she will never wake.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

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_We loves reviews, yes we does precious, precious my love! Erm, sorry—that was the Muse! g But reviews are very nice—I am quite nervous about this, and anything, especially constructive criticism, will be cherished! Flames will be used to torment Faramir in his nightmares—so if you are going to give one, at least think of him? Hee. I have just started my junior year of college, but hopefully I will not keep you all waiting too long for chapter two!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, so I made you all wait much longer than I'd intended, and I attribute that to the craziness of school and the many exchanges I've been participating in over at livejournal! But here I am again with another chapter! I'm sorry they are still on the shorter side—once I move past these first few introductory chapters, I plan on writing longer ones! I just have one noteworthy movie discrepancy for this chapter: Faramir glimpses Eowyn in the window before the Host leaves in the movie, but in this story the Host has already left._

_Thank you to everyone for your kind words, and thanks, as always, to Arahiril!_

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**II**

* * *

_Faramir…Faramir…_

_If only your places had been exchanged—Boromir would have brought me a kingly gift!_

_He would have remembered his father, his City…while you have brought about its utter ruin—now it is burning, burning, with naught left for us but to burn with it!_

Faramir awakens with a start, breathing heavily, groaning softly as he jerks his wounded shoulder in the process. Bending over, he clutches the injury with his left hand as he struggles to regain control of himself.

Sparing a glance to the hearth in the left wall of his room, he notices that there is naught left but embers and despite the chill that has descended upon the room, he is still hot, almost feverish.

He sits for a moment, head bowed, a hand pressed to his forehead in an effort to ease the headache that is already brewing there.

He knows he can take the sleeping draughts that the healers provide, but he does not because he fears that he will become addicted, that the temptation to overdose will prove to be too strong. And perhaps there is a secret locked in the tangled knot of his nightmares that will help explain his father's death, a secret that will reveal itself if he has but the courage to look even further.

But once he wakes he knows that the only sleep that will find him will be restless and short. At any rate, he has no desire to be visited by another nightmare tonight.

Turning his head to look out the large window behind his bed, he sees that the moon is still high in the sky, and he thinks, for the first time since he has been a prisoner in the Houses of Healing, that a taste of cool, fresh, night air might do him some good.

Heaving a weary sigh, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, knees almost buckling after days of disuse. Gasping, he grits his teeth and urges himself onward, keeping in mind why he wanted to leave his room in the first place.

Making it to his door with only one small stumble, he pushes it open quietly and extends his head out into the hallway, looking about for any servants. Seeing no one, he walks down the corridors until he reaches the door to the gardens, keeping close to the walls in case an unexpected bout of weakness might cause him to stagger.

Yet he makes his way without any hindrances and feels better almost the instant he is outside, closing his eyes as a gentle breeze caresses his face. He inhales deeply, savoring the taste of the night, and he wonders why he has not done this before.

As he finally opens his eyes, movement and a flash of color from his left is caught out of the corner of his sight, and when he turns, he is struck temporarily dumb, all grief and pain for the moment forgotten.

It is a vision dressed in white, and when he blinks to make sure he is not hallucinating, his sight clears and is filled with the figure of a maiden clad in white, a river of golden blonde hair flowing down her back. Her face—her body—everything about her is the definition of beauty, and without even knowing anything of her, even her name—Faramir is besotted.

Then she looks directly at him, and he sees a face of the utmost sorrow and grief, yet it is at the same time beautiful. And his heart is moved with the desire to help her, not because he pities her, but because he thinks he might be able to understand her pain. He knows that what he is doing is impolite, that he should avert his gaze, but for the moment he cannot, and neither can she.

When he finally blinks, she has left the window and his line of sight, but he remains looking at it long after her departure, hoping to see another glimpse of her, but she does not return.

His mind is now drowning in questions about her, and he is grateful for this distraction from haunted thoughts and images. She is too fair to be Gondorian—perhaps, then, she is from Rohan? Yet how did she, a woman, come to be wounded in the Houses of Healing? Did she fight on the Pelennor fields? Was she allowed to come, or did she go in disguise?

He remains there a while longer, but when he returns to his bed, he is actually able to find rest that is, for the first time, not tainted with flames but cleansed with appearances of the woman in white.

* * *

When Éowyn awakens, she does not immediately know why.

She had only taken half of the draught this time, and does not recall any dream pulling her out of slumber. It is then, as she is lying in her bed, that she is filled with a strange compulsion to rise. She is not used to spending this much time in idleness, and her body is finally tired of it. Gingerly sitting up and being mindful of her arm, she sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before slowly getting to her feet.

The moonlight streaming across her floor draws her gaze to the window and she walks towards it slowly, gazing down at the garden below.

It is not empty.

There is a man standing below, and it hardly takes him any time at all to notice her in the window and she would have to be blind not to see the captivated look in his gaze.

Even though he looks less foul, she thinks first of Gríma, and her skin prickles with unease as she backs slowly away and out of his line of sight, and does not stop until she is once again sitting on the edge of her bed.

Despite her anxiety, she cannot help but wonder how long he has been a prisoner in these houses, and wonders also about the story that brought him here.

Éowyn isn't even aware that she has fallen back to sleep until her eyelids flutter open, and she is so disoriented that it takes her a moment to absorb her surroundings until she registers the sound of someone knocking at her door.

Much as she would like to, she knows she cannot evade Ioreth forever, and with a resigned sigh calls, "Come in!"

The door opens partially, revealing a hesitant looking Ioreth. "My Lady? I have someone here who would very much like to see if you wish for company!"

She blinks.

_Who could possibly want to…_

Then she remembers.

_Merry._

Her face softens. "Please do, I would very much like to see him."

She does not _really_ desire company, but Merry is an exception. Even in her despair over her unrequited affections for the Lord Aragorn and the march and subsequent battle on the Pelennor, the hobbit had always been welcome company, more so at times even than her brother.

Merry pokes his head in cautiously, but a smile lights up his entire face when he sees her, and it is so infectious that she cannot help but return it, although it is not as bright as his.

"Éowyn!" he cries, and rushes forward to embrace her, taking care not to jostle her injury.

Ioreth curtsies and closes the door wordlessly to give them some privacy, and Éowyn is grateful for the gesture.

He continues to smile, and then points at his injured arm. "Look, Éowyn—we match!"

She chuckles. "Indeed, we do! However, if you had not stabbed the Witch King, I fear I would have more than an injured arm. I owe you my life, dear Merry."

A slight blush touches his cheeks, and his smile becomes shy. "It is because of you that I made it this far—so I owed you, and now we are even! I still hated to be left behind, but I am glad you are here too! It would have been horrible having to wait by myself. How have you been faring?"

She shrugs, sighing. "I am already tired of this idleness, and wish that my brother had let me accompany the Host! I know he is only looking out for me and realize it was a wise decision considering my condition, but it does not feel right to be sitting here doing nothing when our kinsmen are dying for our freedom."

Merry nods, expression now solemn. "Pippin took care of me a little, before they left, and I—I actually tried to convince him not to go! But I know I would have gone if I had been able, and I guess I was just being selfish because I am so afraid I will never see him again!"

Éowyn's heart aches anew, but she senses that another thing is bothering her friend. "Is there anything else that is troubling you, Merry?"

"I am actually worried about Pippin's state of mind," he confesses finally, voice hesitant and anxious. "He has always been my best friend and closest confidant and we tell each other everything, even though it might not be pleasant. Yet I sensed that he had something that was bothering him before the host left, and even though I tried to get him to talk to me of it, he would not, only said it was not his to tell. I know it was not only fear of battle. It was something else, something more important that he was hiding from me, and I wish I had known what it was so I could have helped him bear it before their departure."

She frowns. "Do you think it was a secret he had been pledged to keep?"

"I don't know, and that's what worries me the most! Pippin is always doing stupid things because he acts before thinking, and sometimes without, but I have a feeling that this is something else. I even asked Gandalf about it because the wizard had been with Pippin ever since he took him to Minas Tirith. But all he said was, _The Shirefolk have yet again shown their great worth, and what your cousin has done will reveal itself to you in due time_. Now what in Arda's name could _that _mean?" Merry exclaims, bringing his legs close to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

She had thought she had wanted to be alone, but she is suddenly grateful to Merry and the welcome distraction he has provided to her own dark thoughts. "If anyone would know, Ioreth would, for if he had some injury mayhap she would have been aware of it," Éowyn declares. "Whether or not she'd be able to tell us is another story, but she may, at the very least, be able to ease your heart."

"She does seem to know a lot, doesn't she?" Merry chuckles. "And if Pippin had been hurt somehow, I cannot see why she'd not want to say anything about that." He frowns suddenly. "Now that I think about it—I did notice that his hands seemed to be a bit sensitive, and I'd catch him wincing sometimes if he were holding something too tightly. But whenever I questioned him about it he'd get this guarded expression on his face and wouldn't say anything."

"Well, why don't we try to find her and see if she would be willing to solve this mystery?" Éowyn suggests, standing up and offering her good arm to Merry.

He finally smiles as he takes her arm and slides off the bed. "I like the way you think, Éowyn."

"Ioreth might not," she returns, managing a small smile of her own for the sake of her friend, "but at the very least it will give her the chance to scold me about how little I've been eating."

In spite of everything that is happening around them, her heart actually feels lighter than it has in days and even though this is not saying much, at least it is something.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

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